


A Broken Clock Yet Ticks

by Garotte8Goodnight



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Iron Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcoholism, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Everyone Needs A Hug, M/M, Natasha is a better Bro, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rhodey Is a Good Bro, Tony Has Issues, so does Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 13:24:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6117793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garotte8Goodnight/pseuds/Garotte8Goodnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tell someone you love them today, because life is short. But scream it at them in Russian, because life is also terrifying and confusing.</p>
<p>In which everybody is a little bit broken, and, just sometimes, we need others to hold our pieces together for us when we can no longer do so ourselves.</p>
<p>Set post-Ultron, ignores movie-verse Civil War as a thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tony

**Author's Note:**

> This one has been a long time in the making. As mentioned in the description of East of the Mississippi, that acts as a kind of prequel in terms of Clint's backstory. I didn't want to clutter this up too much with long tangents about the characters' pasts, but it does explain his actions here somewhat. Depending on the reaction to ABCYT, I may write Tony's years at boarding school and university at some point. 
> 
> The artwork is all my own, and I'll be playing around with styles and themes throughout. I've come under criticism in the past for 'blowing my own trumpet' so to speak by including my own artwork in a work of fiction, but I feel it's inclusion is important because the Marvel Universe at its core is a world of Comic Book Superheroes. I don't like loosing the visual effect of that medium.
> 
> I honestly have no idea why I'm getting into another self contained universe of fiction when I'm working flat out on "I'm Free", but sometimes things just need to be written to get them out of your head. Warning; updates on this will probably be slower than my other fic.

\--

Tony doesn't know how to do anything but self destruct; he's good at it too, lessons learned from years of self-loathing and taking solace in alcohol and his work. The Merchant of Death they had called him, war-monger extraordinaire. He finds it kind of poignant that there seems to be a running theme in his life - trying to do the right thing and it all blowing up in his face. Quite literally on a few occasions.

The media love to assume that Tony Stark cut his teeth on diamonds as a child; that he was the silver spoon in mouth, ungrateful brat, of a legend. The only thing Tony ever cut his teeth on was dear daddy's fists.

Some children grow up knowing that they're loved and cared for; drawings pinned to the fridge, bottle fed at bedtime, and their every whim catered to. The only thing Tony had been bottle fed were stories of Steven Grant Rogers, Captain America, and his Howling Commandos. It was the only nourishment he was offered by his father and Tony is loathe to admit that he lapped it up, even though, of course, it were only ever intended to be a statement - to show that Tony could never possibly measure up to this myth. That his father had seen this symbol of American pride and justice as far more the prodigal son than he'd ever see Tony himself.

Tony grew up not sure if he worshipped Captain America or hated him.

It had given him a cause though, so he took over Daddy's company like a good boy, and he built weapons to defend his nation and protect their soldiers. Then later he'd worked with S.H.I.E.L.D - Peggy Carter and his father's secret that stood to protect secrets - supposedly the last line of defence of their homeland.

In both cases it had all gone to hell. Because really, what is the point in fighting if you don't know who you're fighting for? Under the counter arms dealing to the enemy is just the same as having the enemy in charge of your nation's security in Tony's mind. That is, in both cases it just goes to show that there is no such thing as a just cause.

Throughout everything Pepper and Rhodey were like beacons in the darkness, the only two things holding him together and preventing him tipping completely over the edge. After Afghanistan he felt more disconnected from them than ever though, and that was okay in Tony's eyes because he had other things to worry about. He no longer had to sit introspective, and focus all of his energy and that brilliant mind on dissecting his own character flaws - not now there were bigger problems, and lives far more important than his own to worry about. For a while, Tony was able to lock some of his issues away in a box inside his head. It were the kind of box that had hazard signs and "warning: do not open" stamped all over it. It was a good box in Tony's opinion; it kept people safe.

But Tony was not fixed, not at all, he didn't think it were even possible to fix a broken thing as badly damaged as himself. Merely, over the years he had started to own it, this tendency towards self destruction, accepted it as an integral part of his personality so that he might have some modicum of control over it. Control has always been very important - on a surface level it's what makes him such a brilliant scientist and pioneer - he makes things happen, he doesn't just let things happen to both himself and the world around him. It's also responsible for a few of his personal tics as well though; like why he hates following orders, or taking things that people hand to him. It's a small price to pay though for that sense of power that control gives him.

And so rather than denying that at any particular moment in time he is walking along a knife edge, and just might implode at any second, he begins to do positive things with it; like creating the Ironman suit in order to put his own, otherwise civilian, life on the line every single day - to protect others deemed far more important than himself. If it were not for this particular facet of his character, some would call it a flaw, but Tony had become to think of it as a strength, there would not exist a man willing to stay awake for five days straight working away in his lab to better humanities chances against those who would seek to destroy it. There would be no one to throw themselves through a portal to another dimension, with a nuke in tow, knowing the chances of returning were slim to none.

But still all too regularly he will slip, and his issues affect those around him in a way far beyond the realms of acceptable behaviour. Ultron was the final spanner in the works. Tony had panicked, he knew that now, but Wanda had gotten further inside his head than any shrink ever had in the past, and rather than merely taking the lid off of that box containing Tony's issues and insecurities and fears, it was like she'd completely torn it open and turned it upside down - scattering its contents across the landscape of Tony's mind.

Ultron was the ultimate mistake - and Bruce, sweet innocent Bruce, who knew what it was like to be afraid, who hated and feared himself in equal measure perhaps as much as Tony himself did, had left after the dust cleared. That was a blow - for a few brief months Tony had found a kindred spirit, one who didn't care about his innumerable daddy issues, who could overlook Tony's sharp tongue and see through the masks he threw up to protect himself from the outside world, someone who appreciated Tony for his own brilliance. Tony misses having Bruce around in the lab, he'd been a calming presence, a welcome change in an otherwise chaotic whirl of energy and creation - he also slightly fears for his life given Natasha's recent attachment to Bruce, knowing that it was all his fault the man had been driven away.

It wasn't just his fellow scientist Tony missed though, it's all of them if he were to be completely honest with himself. Natasha, Clint and Steve were working with a slowly rebuilding S.H.I.E.L.D, and the military had even allowed Sam and Rhodey out on a leash to S.H.I.E.L.D as well - and god if that didn't hurt, Rhodey would rather go play mission with the good Captain himself than hangout with Tony, his one time best friend. Hell, even Wanda with her own innumerable issues would have made better company than none, but of course, she was off with the Vision - practically Jarvis personified and in Tony's mind, the nearest thing he would ever have to a son.

And Tony was left alone except for Pepper.

It was his choice though, he had chosen to isolate himself like this, to remove himself from the Avengers Initiative, and away from the group of people he could only dream of calling friends. But Tony knew that this was what he deserved, to be left alone to continue his consultant work, locked away in his lab for weeks at a time working on new weapons for the Avengers, technology that S.H.I.E.L.D needed to rebuild and, of course, on developing the arc reactor technology that was fast becoming Stark Industries and America's clean energy staple.

\--

Tony threw himself into it, days and nights would pass without him really noticing - no windows to the outside, combined with the constant glow of blue fluorescent overheads, meant every hour was the same as another. He'd work and work until he could no more, desperate to feel like he was doing something useful, but also to drown out the errant thoughts that slipped across his mind when he wasn't concentrating on something or other that he deemed more important than himself and his own fragile psyche. Which, to be fair, was most things. He tried, at first, to take breaks and tuck himself into bed when he felt fatigue coming on, but whenever he gave them the chance, memories of desperate screaming and the cloying smell of blood and dust thick in the air as the city of Sokovia faced its final hour plagued his mind. So instead he gave himself things to concentrate on and worked until exhaustion, and around day five he'd fall asleep at a worktop, bent over schematics or renderings - normally with a spanner or tablet still in hand. He'd sleep at least 10-12 hours, although, perhaps sleep wasn't really the word; he was always more unconscious than asleep. This wouldn't last long though before he was awake, and carrying on where he left off after a quick shower and refill of the coffee pot.

He lived like this for months, if you could really call it living, before Pepper announced she was leaving - it was more a formal acknowledgement of what he knew to be an inevitability, but she had tears in her eyes and he felt his already empty heart break that little bit more. He didn't protest though, merely nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat, hugged her tightly and wished her the best. She deserved better than him, and he wasn't about to be selfish and stop her. She would, of course, remain CEO of Stark Industries and one of his closest friends, but if she needed a bit of distance from Tony to be happy.. Hell, he'd build a rocket and fly her to the moon if that's what it would take.

And then Tony was completely alone, and he couldn't help but feel that this was the way it was supposed to be, that it was what he deserved. It still left a band of pressure around his chest though, and a knot of something he couldn't quite explain in his stomach. Was it loneliness? Tony wouldn't know, he didn't suppose there had ever been a time in his life when he had the pleasure of not being what others would deem as lonely. The absence of human companionship had been so much a backdrop of his entire existence to date, that it would be very strange for that to begin to affect him only now. He'd only ever really had his bots and JARVIS for company, and he'd always been quite alright with that thank you very much; they at least could be trusted, had his best wishes at heart and wouldn't betray him.

He would never say he had control over them, most especially not JARVIS, but he did at least have their undying respect and devotion - and that was always enough to appease his anxiety. Over the course of a few weeks he pondered whether this was somehow correlated to the feeling in his abdomen, one which he could only describe as though someone had been doing boy scout knots with his intestines. Perhaps that was it, he came to decide, perhaps FRIDAY, as helpful as she was, was not a good enough replacement companion for JARVIS - who, whether in human butler or AI form, had been the biggest constant in Tony's life since he was a small child. Perhaps it was a kind of nostalgia, or regret, for sending JARVIS out into the world as a part of the Vision's processing matrices? But it was only as Tony sat under the blue fluorescents with a cup of coffee in hand, at what the clock deemed 4:37am on a Tuesday, and he looked over his backup code files that he would need for a redesign of JARVIS that Tony shook his head. No. He was proud of what JARVIS had become with the Vision, and FRIDAY more than fulfilled her duties. Whatever this was, it was not nostalgia for the past; he was a futurist after all.. He refused to even acknowledge the possibility that it could be his system complaining at the copious amounts of alcohol he had inflicted upon it since Pepper's departure.

He hadn't even bothered to remove the empty glass bottles that stood like sentinels around his primary work station, they were totems in Tony's eyes - idols to the fact Tony Stark just couldn't be kept down no matter how far he pushed himself. Of course, since having the arc reactor removed after the whole Mandarin incident, he really shouldn't be trading a lack of heart disease for an alternative in liver disease, but hey, Tony took pleasure in the fact that this time he was the one inflicting pain on his body. Not some sand dwelling scum terrorists. He controlled this.

He swiped the JARVIS file to the side and off of the array, and instead pulled up the schematics he had been working on prior to his little introspection. Back to work, there were things to do and people were relying on him to get the job done already.

\--

Tony had been working on the design for a new bow for Hawkeye for a few days now; he'd been using the new Hoyt Recurve in the battle against Ultron, and so he'd largely based the shape on the bow with which the archer had appeared the most comfortable. This would be.. A little different though. After all, with Ironman retired Tony was just sitting on his patent for repulsor technology, without said breakthrough actually doing anything to benefit the world. Clint Barton was easily the man Tony thought most capable of always hitting the right target, and not using the repulsor tech recklessly where it could endanger others.

He was rather glad Pepper wasn't here to berate him though - he wasn't sure she'd entirely approve of him outfitting a bow with a miniaturised particle accelerator, and an arc reactor to power it, that could generate the muons required for a repulsor blast. He knew what he was doing though. If he wasn't going to use the tech himself, might as well let the other Avengers make use of it, right?

He didn't stop working until lunchtime the next day, at least, that's what time the holographic readout told him it was. To be honest, with how long Tony had spent cooped up in his man-cave the world could have ended and time could have come to a standstill without him even noticing. He decided not though, considering he would probably have received a text or call from someone for weapons or ammo assistance if that were the case. He gave a sardonic grin at the thought that, that really is all he would be contacted for. No one would think to call and ask "hey Tony, the worlds ending, just checking you're alright bro, all safe?" The grin was more of a grimace and Tony shook his head and instead strolled over to where the assembly bots had finished, and he removed the completed weapon from a robotic grasp.

At least he'd have an excuse to call the team and ask them to drop by - he had an upgraded suit for Captain Superior sat ready too - carbon nano-fibre based, but with a built in nano graphene layer hooked up to an electronic interface on the left forearm. Graphene was super-conductive and the minute atomic sized circuitry would allow the micro-computer on the forearm to constantly monitor bio output without bulk or constricting the good Captain's movements in any way. Tony knew Rogers healed remarkably fast, but that had also allowed him to hide otherwise serious injuries from S.H.I.E.L.D in the past just because there were other agents who had needed medical attention too. Tony picked up the abandoned bottle of whisky that still had at least a few measures left and took several angry swigs, the man always had to act the perfect fucking martyr didn't he.

After draining the bottle he decided it was perhaps time for a nap given that he had lost track of the number of days that had passed, the alcohol would prevent the nightmares at least. He stumbled as he exited the workshop but refused to blame it on intoxication - if there was one thing in the world Tony Stark could do well, it was drink. He was a bit tired, that was all. He vaguely registered FRIDAY talking to him, but didn't really pay attention to her words, as he exited the lift at the penthouse and swayed his way over to the bedroom. Words could wait, now was sleep. Tony collapsed face down without even removing his shirt and pants and was blissfully reminded why his mattress cost $10,000 in the first place. He was gone in under a minute.

And that was how Tony Stark spent Wednesday.


	2. Steve

Wednesday started with a bang; a literal bang, which Steve was none too happy about because, even though he was normally a morning person, morning did not normally consist of a rude awakening at 5am - especially given they'd only gone to bed a few hours before after a night time training exercise.

Still, ever the poster boy for keen wholesome young soldier, it took Steve under two minutes to be up, dressed in Captain America garb, and be out sprinting down the corridor - his shield already strapped to his forearm. He was the first to arrive in the control room, with Colonel Rhodes sliding in only a few minutes later wearing the undersuit to the War Machine armour.

"Captain..?" Rhodes looked confused and disorientated, but Steve had to admit he was no more in the know than the fairly obviously just-awake Colonel.

Falcon was the next to enter, only thirty seconds behind, and Natasha and Clint were hot on his heels - Natasha already hastily speaking into comms and the only one prepped with weapons ready.

AIM, it turns out, were not at all in need of sleep and had decided a rather unsociable hour to strike the Avengers base - which, to be fair, was probably the whole idea behind a sneak attack. Steve just wished their enemies would fight fair though, I mean, was it really too much to ask..?

He had to wonder why the yellow suited idiots still bothered, given it took less than half an hour to subdue and disarm all of them. That was the least of Steve's concerns though, as he surveyed the damage to their home. It was just disrespectful really.

The others had headed back to bed by the time the clock struck 6am, but he nominated himself to go fill the report with S.H.I.E.L.D and discuss the renovations that would be needed over the next few weeks. They had been less than careful, more concerned with taking out the bad guys as fast as possible - especially given AIMs proclivity to Electro Magnetic Pulses, which were hardly Rhodes and Falcon friendly - and as a result the building had sustained more than minimal structural damage.

Steve dropped his head in his hands at the ensuing headache that he was sure this would cause; but he was almost grateful for the excuse to avoid going back to bed. He didn't mean to be, what he deemed, so self pitying - but he had been finding it harder and harder to sleep recently; his dreams cycling between the plane crash that had seen him trapped in the ice for 70 odd years, Bucky's look of betrayal as he fell from the train into the valley below - blanketed by freezing ice and snow, and his final fight with Bucky before they both hit the water after falling from Hydra's own carrier. Steve had long since decided he hated the water, especially when it was cold.

Not that he'd ever dreamed of mentioning this to anyone; Steve's problems were his own, and he would address them and move on in time. He had always been quite a private person, but the idea of having this weakness filled him with shame. Here he was, supposed to be the invincible super-soldier, and yet, something as simple as having to dive into a lake a few weeks back in order to retrieve a file from a USB - that the Hydra agent had so helpfully lobbed out into the water when it became clear he was going to be captured - had set him back months of progress.

It wasn't even so much the being underwater part - that Steve could deal with - it was the initial slap as his face hit the unbroken surface, and the water closed over his head, that left him momentarily paralysed and unable to function. Of course he powered through it so the others were none the wiser, but he had woken up everyday since before sunrise, drenched in sweat and filled with terror. The ice had taken everything from Steve; everyone and everything he had ever known and loved - dead, gone and demolished long before Steve awoke. Even now his dreams were plagued by the drowned faces of those he had come to care for in the modern age, he shuddered at the thought of any of them being harmed at all - let alone dying, and especially to a dark, watery grave.

He was glad the Avengers all lived together, and so were always nearby, just so he could keep an eye on them, make sure they were safe and cared for. Well, apart from Bruce, Wanda and the Vision, but the Vision always maintained a live electronic feed with the computer mainframe - not that Steve would ever understand how that worked - which meant he knew their status and where they were at all times, and that worked for him. Bruce was a different story, but his postcard updates came frequently enough that Steve wasn't too worried - especially given that Hulk would always look after his small genius of a human counterpart.

Steve was watching the sunrise from the roof as the S.H.I.E.L.D liaison's jeep approached the main building, and considered that there was one other person missing from that list - but then, he supposed Stark was the most equipped out of all of them to take care of himself. Added to that, the man was enough of an arrogant asshole that he would probably just pity Steve, and regard him with that superior sneer and derisive manner for even daring to give his well being a second thought. Steve kind of missed having him around though, well, he was a liability that was for sure - and his self destructive tendencies certainly caused more problems than the man would ever solve, but.. He was Howard's son, and the last remaining link to his past that Steve had other than Bucky, the Winter Soldier, whatever that shell of his once best friend now was. That, and his sharp tongue kind of kept Steve on his toes - no one else ever dared challenge Captain America on anything, but Steve appreciated that he did - because it meant in Stark's eyes he wasn't Captain America the Great War hero, he was just Steve Rogers, the man.

Sometimes Steve didn't like having to live up to his title, sometimes he liked just being Steve - not Captain America, all American poster boy patriot, leader of the Avengers, and best hope for America's future. Sometimes he just wanted to be Stevie Rogers; that scrawny slightly dorky kid from Brooklyn, the one who went to church on Sunday's, who liked the Dodgers, art, and would probably never really do anything great, but would lead a good, honest life.

Steve wouldn't admit to himself that the pang of loss also may have had something to do with the fact Stark had been the first person in the modern age to actually attempt to befriend him, and now.. Well, the guy had just walked away from the team and hadn't even spoken to Steve in months. In fact, the only reason he knew the mad scientist was even alive was because War Machine hadn't gone off the deep end and pulverised any buildings; at least, not outside the normal realms of duty.

The jeep pulled up and Steve jumped the two stories down to meet whichever agent had been sent to help clean up the mess this time, already forgetting that he had even paid any heed to Stark's existence.

It was only later that evening, after he had spent all day with S.H.I.E.L.D making sure that the damage reports and status updates had been filled and filed correctly, that he saw the new message from Stark sat in his inbox. He had been given the phone by S.H.I.E.L.D - a flat rectangular black piece of glass that worked by magic, as far as he was concerned anyway- and he had to admit he had been quite impressed with his own abilities to pick up how to use it so fast.

_Sender: Stark;_

_Captain Rogers, request for Avengers presence at Stark Tower tomorrow for new kit/weapons testing. Anytime after 12, FRIDAY will let you into the lab._

Steve made sure to let the others know before he turned in for the night, even a super-soldier needed his rest eventually, and after weeks of broken and unsettled sleep Steve was beat. He groaned, as he dropped into bed he'd noticed the new skylight in his ceiling. Well, at least Stark would probably get a kick out of what had happened to the Avengers base today - given his apparent glee in setting off explosions in his own home on a regular basis.

Steve turned onto his side, one arm tucked under his pillow, and tried to settle. This was harder than he'd thought it would be though given how dog tired he was - there had been no update on Intel from S.H.I.E.L.D as to the Winter Soldier's location, and as much as Steve wanted to get out there and search himself, he was needed here more. The nightmares that plagued his sleep wouldn't get any better, he knew, until he could make this right. He was haunted; both by James Barnes' sky blue eyes as he fell towards darkness, and the empty pools of ice of the Winter Soldier - eyes which Steve could only describe as filled with emotionless dread.

He had to trust the intelligence agency to do what they did best, logically he knew this; but it was hard knowing that others were out there trying to fix his screw ups that had been committed 70 years in the past. Steve was steadfast in his belief that what had happened to Bucky was his fault, and thus it should be up to Steve to make this right. Bucky had only gone to war in the first place because Steve had begged him, unable to do his part himself his best friend had gone in his place. Even after the serum and rescuing Bucky from Zola he'd been offered honourable discharge on prisoner of war and psychological grounds, and yet still he'd stayed. For what, for Steve? It makes Steve feel sick to the stomach knowing that everything that happened to Bucky from enlisting onwards was a direct result of Steve - his own actions and choices. Now it's his turn to set this right.

He wondered if maybe Stark could help him tomorrow in some way; if there was one person that might have better luck than S.H.I.E.L.D it was the sharpest mind Steve had ever known - even if it was just advice on a different approach to take when searching. He saw things differently to Steve, and even if that caused confrontation the vast majority of the time, here it may be helpful given everything Steve had tried so far hadn't worked. Steve could be humble - even if it were to Stark.

He finally fell asleep - his mind trapped in a frustrating loop of wanting to be a good leader, whilst managing a desperate, selfish, desire that wished to abandon all of this just to go after his once best friend.


	3. Tony

Tony woke up around 10am Thursday to both his own surprise and bemusement; he knew he'd been exhausted but really.. Nearly 22 hours asleep had to be some kind of new personal record. Especially given he hadn't slept that long in the two weeks prior all put together, let alone all in one go.

Sleep never came easy to him these days, wait no, that was a lie, in fact, he found it very easy to sleep what with being constantly exhausted. The fact remained, he just didn't want to - because the one thing Tony couldn't control was his subconscious mind. When he finally did allow his exhausted body to fall asleep his brain appeared to take great joy in putting together a showreel for him of everything that he avoided thinking about during waking hours; displaying them in glorious HD technicolor across the front of his cerebral cortex.

Hence why, when he actually intended to sleep, he drank until his brain ceased to function properly. He almost felt like he was trying to cheat the damned thing.

The Avengers would be over in a couple of hours, so Tony hauled himself out of bed and into the shower - he undressed quickly, whilst avoiding looking at himself in the mirror, before near diving into the steaming spray. He took his time, massaging his own temples as he rubbed shampoo into his hair, which was getting a little long he noticed - he couldn't remember the last time he got it cut, and washing away a few days worth of mechanical grease. He should at least make some kind of attempt to look normal and well cared for, even if he didn't much feel like it. The last thing he needed was questions that he knew he would find too uncomfortable to answer, and to distract any of them with worry about his own personal health.

Not that they would worry, well, Rhodey would, but then, Rhodey was always worried. Tony had, for many years now, been ready to declare the Colonel an anxious wreck who desperately needed a holiday; of course, all without considering Rhodey's troubled countenance to be anything to do with Tony's own proclivity for finding himself right in the middle of dangerous situations, and things about to go boom. Nope, entirely not his fault. James Rhodes just needed to learn how not to be a mother hen.

Captain Asshole, however, Tony just knew he would seize any opportunity of Tony not appearing to be coping well and use it to his own benefit. He'd suggest it nicely enough; some time on leave away from his consultant duties or something like that, but Tony knew his endgame. Rogers just wanted him away from the others where he could cause friction between them - he was well aware that whenever he and the Captain squared up the others were forced to pick sides, and yes, they were probably functioning far better as a team, a synchronised unit, without him there.

But Tony was selfish, and even if the others didn't live in the tower anymore, these infrequent interactions he still got to have with them were what kept him sane; because while he was doing things for them - whether it be weapons, gear, or even Intel assistance - Tony got to feel useful. He could put his own thoughts and emotions aside and throw himself into work because he had a purpose; something to fight for. If he lost that.. Tony knew he'd probably start falling apart.

He didn't know how long he spent under the hot water, but at some point he'd slid down the wall to sit on the floor directly underneath the spray. After he was done he dressed quickly - long sleeved undershirt, band shirt over the top, work pants and steel capped boots - before heading straight down to the workshop, forgoing breakfast but stopping to grab the pot of coffee FRIDAY had sat waiting in the kitchen, coffee machine still dripping.

He looked around the long sleek lines of the kitchen, and briefly considered stopping to make something to eat, but there wasn't really time; - there were still final adjustments to make on Romanov's twin fighting batons that he'd reworked after the fight with Ultron. They were a work of great engineering, even if he did say so himself - based on escrima sticks, yet with enough electrical punch to put an elephant to sleep - but they'd been a prototype that she'd taken into battle, and Tony had redesigned them many times since.

Besides, he had always hated eating alone anyway.

\--

He wasn't sure exactly when it had started; when he'd been young he'd always had breakfast and dinner with Jarvis - the butler filling a position somewhere between big brother and surrogate father in Tony's life. But then he'd been sent away to school, and the other kids had all been older than him, and he'd been a weird kid so no one had wanted to talk to him. Mealtimes had meant sitting alone in a large hall whilst everyone else chatted and laughed with their friends. He'd avoided them as much as possible.

He'd spent years at that school; long and miserable years, all spent hoping that eventually Jarvis or his father would respond to his requests to please come pick him up already and take him home. It was probably for the best that he'd stayed in retrospect; Tony had realised his only way out was to graduate already and he'd spend days, sometimes weeks at a time over the holidays, locked away in his room learning everything he could possibly need to know.

In the end they'd had to let him graduate early and he'd gone to college. MIT undergrad finished by 16, working on his double masters, before starting his first PhD.

But somewhere between meals alone as a an eight year old kid, and a college grad student living off super noodles whenever he remembered, or rather Rhodey reminded him, that he wasn't actually one of his bots, and needed more than just electricity as sustenance, Tony's relationship with food had become a little strained.

It was, of course, tied to his relationship with alcohol, because whilst Tony Stark hated eating alone, he had no such qualms about drinking. Tony was severely screwed up and he knew it, but that was okay, because at least he was alone so his behaviour didn't affect anyone else. Even if, arguably, being alone did actually make it far worse. That wasn't his fault, people just didn't want Anthony Edward Stark around unless he was being useful.

\--

When Tony got to the lab he made sure to clear the empty liquor bottles into the trash before he started work. He feels fragile today and not quite capable of dealing with judging looks and sharp comments from the 'holier than thou' Captain Amazing.


	4. Steve

It was just after 12 when the Quinjet, piloted by Agent Barton, touched down on the landing pad atop Stark tower; and Steve noticed the man himself was stood waiting to greet them.

The Avengers piled out quickly; Colonel Rhodes was the first one to touch the ground, and Steve watched with mild exasperation as he and Stark rolled around on the ground like kids - the taller one had thrown himself into the others waiting arms with a cry of "honey, I'm home!" answered with "oh, how I missed you Rhodey-bear!"

He watched Barton out of the corner of his eye and had to struggle to keep a straight face; he knew the twitch in the archers muscles was Clint's restrained attempt to launch himself atop the pile that consisted of Rhodes' and Stark's tangled limbs. If he were on the topic of kids, he knew Barton was the biggest man-child of all. 

Steve would never understand how Natasha put up with him, given that she was just about the scariest person he'd ever met, and the ultimate in stoic emotionless derision. Clint on the other hand was a class clown -constantly demanding attention - Steve couldn't help but wonder if that was to hide something though; after all, misdirection was the truly the tool of a master of disguise, and Barton's eyes didn't always match his unrestrained grin. Steve shook his head, and just accepted that Barton and Romanov's friendship would always be a mystery unto themselves, instead he joined the others as they filed into the building.

Stark dragged them straight down to the labs, and Steve as always had restrain himself from wanting to touch the multitude of holograms and arrays. They just looked so interesting - even if he had no idea what they displayed, or how they worked.

Stark quickly had them all outfitted with the latest gear and updates - handing them out as though they were toys. Natasha twirled her new batons with glee, and Steve had to hold in the shudder that wanted to run down his spine - what with how dangerous she looked just smiling. Natasha wasn't supposed to smile, that normally meant someone was about to die.

He was next, and Steve ran his fingers over the material of his new suit with wonder - no edges or seams it was like a second skin. The material was like nothing he had ever felt before, and he marvelled at how light and thin it felt even as he took Stark's assurances that it were far superior to anything he had worn before in terms of durability and protection. "Thank you" he smiled and meant it, even as the genius demonstrated how to run his finger along the side beneath the underarm - at which point an open seam appeared that hadn't been there previously. 

He had tried to understand as Stark explained the science behind it, and not just get lost in the rambling, with most of the meaning washing over his head. At first he didn't understand the significance of the fact it was coded only to its creator's and Steve's own biometrics - meaning it would be impossible for anyone else to remove unless they knew how and used Steve's own hand to do so - until the mad genius explained that the built in bio-monitor and tracker were linked to his own computers. If Steve were ever captured by Hydra again, they'd be able to find him - even if the S.H.I.E.L.D issued trackers were destroyed by himself or others and he went off grid. 

Stark almost seemed embarrassed under the weight of his obvious gratitude and honest praise, unless Steve was misreading the situation anyway, and quickly hurried off to attend to Sam and the upgrades to the Falcons wing-system programming. Stark handed Sam a pair of red flight glasses with an electronic interface that streamed across the top right corner - like a screen that you could only see if you looked directly at it - and installed a processing chip with monitoring systems and a basic AI - akin to how J.A.R.V.I.S had assisted Iron Man, but not with as complex a user interface. It had an almost military efficiency to it - just live Intel and updates as to positioning and armour status, without all the flash and jazz of having a complete artificial personality. Sam looked pleased, and Steve couldn't help but notice how Stark's mood in turn seemed boosted - now running around near manically, flicking between checking how the updated interface was on the War Machine armour, to how the calibrations of Natasha's batons to her personal style were going (apparently they were internally weighted with a mechanical gyro, which could alter their centre of balance to suit the user and speed of use, and Steve had no idea what that meant but filed it away in case it were ever important). 

It clicked in Steve's head - Stark seemed to come alive when he was doing things like this; - giving the team stuff to make their lives easier, keep them safer, and was receiving praise for doing so. It was almost like the guy thrived off of the appreciation that he had done something good, and if he were honest with himself, Steve knew how that felt. The need to feel useful, and like he was actually achieving something good with the gifts he had been given.

It seemed Stark had saved Barton for last, and Steve along with the others all watched in apprehension at the mad grin that had spread across the geniuses face; especially when it were matched by Clint only ten seconds later, as Stark whispered hurriedly in his ear hands gesturing wildly. Oh dear, Steve thought - this probably was not going to end well.

He was surprised therefore when Stark then picked up what was obviously a bow cylinder; - handing it to Clint with great ceremonial presentation, as though he had just handed him the Tesseract itself. Steve wasn't sure whether or not he should be relieved or even more worried. Natasha next to him shook her head, and he decided on worried, definitely worried, if even Natasha sported a vague look of exasperation on her normally blank face. 

Clint pulled the bow out of the case with a look of uncontainable glee, and Steve was even more surprised to notice that there were no arrows - given most of the tech gifts that Tony had given to the archer in the past were arrows that exploded bigger and better, he had to wonder what was so great about the bow to give Clint an expression like that. Steve wondered if he should be even more worried and decided yes, one million percent yes, when he noticed what he could only describe as a miniature arc reactor mounted above the grip and below the electronic sight. Steve let his hand fall into his palm and sighed, whatever that bow did he knew it would cause him some kind of headache in the near future. The frankly insane inventor had strapped what, to Steve's knowledge, was a nuclear reactor to a Palaeolithic era weapon, and if that wasn't a disaster waiting to happen Steve didn't know what was.

They followed as Stark lead Clint to the room next door, which was empty aside from the metal targets at the far end that hung on cables from the ceiling, and showed him how to move a dial on the side of what looked like a silver tube, mounted between the sight and the reactor. Steve was still confused about the lack of arrows for all of ten seconds - that was, Clint whipped the bow up, sighted, drew back and released all in the space of .5 of a second - and what Steve could only describe as a repulsor blast melted a hole around five centres diameter dead centre of the target on the other side of the room. 

Stark, Natasha and Clint looked between each other with what could only be described as unadulterated glee, and Steve wondered if he should just resign now - Christ alive, Clint was going to cause some damage with that thing. Next to him he noticed Sam and Rhodes also looked a strange combination of vaguely disturbed and horrified, and Steve was very relieved to find that he wasn't the only one. Well, there went the Avengers minimal kill policy. Figures that the madman and the two deadly assassins would be the ones who looked overjoyed with this new development, Steve thought - pretty much done with the world for the day. He knew that the military men's voices of reason - because all of them came preloaded with consciences shouting things like "self restraint, minimal harm" in the back of their heads - were outnumbered too. Because, as Steve was well aware, even if Ironman didn't strictly count as an Avenger anymore, Thor when he next returned from Asgard would find this new development equally as thrilling as Clint and Natasha, and most certainly Wanda would give that smile that betrayed a deep love of bloodshed and terror. 

What had Steve gotten himself into? He shook his head restraining a sign of dismay - a mad scientist, two deadly assassins, an ex-murderess mind controller, an android, a couple of veterans who, much as Steve may want to deny, had vague moral boundaries and possible signs of PTSD... And these were supposed to be the good guys? Jesus, the world didn't stand a chance really.


	5. Clint

Clint couldn't keep his hands off the new bow as he followed the others up to the floor that had once been the Avengers' rec space; this thing was truly a modern marvel and he couldn't be more grateful.

He had, of course, noticed the look of abject terror on Steve's face but ah well; Tony had truly outdone himself this time, and hopefully at some point Steve would catch on that the the guy was just trying to help. Keep them all safe.

Clint may have been the loudest of the group, but he also liked to think that he was perhaps the next most observant after Natasha. Even more so when it came to the messy emotional stuff because, sometimes, Natka just didn't get things like that. It's like, in order to compensate for her cognitive intelligence, her emotional intelligence had to be stunted a little bit to allow her to think more rationally. Cost-benefit, everything rationalised, no distracting emotions. Anyone else may have been tempted to think 'much like Tony himself', but Clint knows better; in fact, he's pretty sure that the reason Nat is better adjusted than Tony is because, for all of his flaws, he actually has quite a good grasp of human emotions - he just chose a long time ago to hide it and ignore it in the hope they would go away.

It's sad really he thinks, because he knows Nat sometimes wishes she could feel instinctively, the way he does, rather than have to learn how to react to things, and constantly make adjustments to her emotional sense of the world. On the other hand, Tony would like nothing more than his little box of emotions to just go away. Clint has always supposed when it comes to this bunch that, if everyone were to throw their problems in a heap in the middle of the room, they'd all be quick enough to grab their own back once they saw the extent to which their friends psyches were damaged.

Clint did have good emotional intelligence though - even if he could ignore it when necessary - but he liked to think he was actually quite an empathetic guy. He was secretly completely sure that this ragtag group couldn't hold it together without him, whether any of them would like to admit it or not.

It was therefore Clint who noticed after they'd all spread out on sofas, some shitty movie about sharks and tornadoes on in the background and pizza boxes piled on the table, that Tony became more animated. Because even though he had a slice of pizza in his hand, and was bouncing around the room between play fighting with Rhodey, teasing Steve and risking loss of limbs with taunts to Natasha, not a single bite of pizza did he actually consume. Clint kept casual conversation going between himself and Sam, who was sprawled on the sofa between him and Steve, and used that as a cover for his observations of the frankly mad genius.

Natasha caught his eye across the room, and Clint knew that she'd noticed it too. Tony was tired looking that much was sure - and though Clint was ready to admit that they all were recently, this, this was different. It was like he was a little less sharp around the edges, or actually, more sharp around the edges - his hair a little longer than normal, and even though he was wearing quite a few layers Clint could see his wrists were sharper. His skin was paler than the usual olive, and while that could be explained by working too hard in his lab and not enough time spent outside, Clint was sure it was also something to do with why the bags under his eyes were kind of purple bruised.

Natasha nodded in Clint's direction and that was their mutual sign that they would leave it for now; more data collection was needed. But this, Clint was sure, was something that needed to be monitored. If Tony was sick, which is what it looked like, precautions and procedures would need to be put in place. Clint just hoped it wasn't anything serious like the palladium poisoning, though since the arc reactor had been removed he supposed it couldn't be anything as bad as that.

He would make sure he mentioned to Steve after they headed back to base though; just so that something could be done so they could keep an eye on him, make sure he was okay. He may not be an official Avenger anymore but he was still their friend - and if he were sick Clint knew Natka and the others would go to great lengths to assure his health.

\--

They were in the Quinjet on the way back to the Avengers base when the call came through - Clint was needed for a mission and a slight detour would be needed before the others could head home. Nat took over the controls from him but he stayed sat next to her, leaving sideways to rest his head on her shoulder.

The others wouldn't comment - they were far too used to this; the two agents were like brother and sister, joined at the hip - and so Clint took the time to relax and centre ahead of whatever S.H.I.E.L.D had planned for him.

Natasha was the one to nudge him and remind him to talk to Steve before he left; even if Tony weren't officially an Avenger, as their leader it would be up to Steve to decide what to do in terms of making sure he was okay.

Clint groaned and reluctantly gave up his place nestled between her shoulder and neck, flame red hair tickling his nose. Steve was reading something that looked suspiciously like a news paper at the back of the plane, and God, he really couldn't be any more of an old man, could he? Clint rolled his eyes and dropped into the seat beside him. Steve looking up with a ready smile, despite the fact he was quite obviously tired.

"Hi there." Clint, rather than speaking, poked him as a response - which was so typically Clint he was surprised Steve even looked surprised anymore - and he laughed before regaining himself because, even though he hoped it wasn't that serious, the topic at hand deserved just a little maturity.

"We think Tony's sick," Clint tried to impress upon Steve with his eyes that he wasn't joking anymore - that this was something he was genuinely concerned about, and not some kind of practical joke.

Steve raised one eyebrow in surprise; "are you sure? I mean, he looked a little tired yeah, but we all are. Besides, he seemed full of beans, are you sure you aren't imagining it?"

Clint nodded; "me and Natasha both noticed; he's lost weight, he's too pale and he just looks kind of tired. Not like he needs to sleep tired, though that too, but like a toy that been sat in some kids toy box for too long."

Steve chewed carefully at his lip while he thought, and he nodded back at Clint; "I hadn't noticed myself but I will make sure we keep an eye somehow - it could just be the flu or something, but with the guys medical record and tendency to hide serious illness, we should make sure."

Clint smiled worried soothed for now; "thanks Captain. I'm going to be away for maybe a few days or so, and I just don't want all of you falling apart while I'm gone."

Clint winks, drawing a chuckle from Steve, and then he's gone - hugging Natasha, much to her chagrin, before vaulting out of the back of the Quinjet onto the S.H.I.E.L.D landing pad. Rhodey and Sam wave as the others head for home, and Clint turns to the agents waiting for him with a grin.

"What have you got for me?" He has his new bow and boy, if he just cannot wait for the chance to use it.

\--

Russia is cold. Clint does not like the cold. They should have sent Natasha.

\--

\--

5 hours later he has acclimatised a little and acknowledged that, well, it could have been a lot worse. Thank god for Tony and his climate control gear he'd packaged off to S.H.I.E.L.D a few months back, because to be quite frank, their standard issue cold weather gear had been long, long overdue an update. Clint supposed he had to give them the fact that there hadn't been many missions to Russian Siberia since the Cold War ended, and Jesus if the aforementioned sub-standard cold weather gear was all the poor bastards had back then emphasis was on the word Cold, but still, they should have been prepared.

Clint isn't really as grumpy as he sounds, but he finds the run-on monologue in his head a decent enough distraction from how cold he actually is, because, you know - archer, no hands covered. Plus Clint likes to complain about things, it makes him feel better. Trudging through the snow with the icy wind cutting through him, and snowflakes burning his eyes and face, is hardly how he planned on spending his evening.

Half an hour later he has already infiltrated the first Hydra outpost; positioned on a flat roof in the centre of the compound so he's a fairly good 360 degree view depending which way he rolls. He's high enough, 5 stories, that anyone is unlikely to spot him from the ground, and all of the other buildings are only a couple of stories high. It's only aircraft he has to keep an eye for, or if somebody decides they would quite like to come sit and watch the stars atop the building he has claimed as his own.

Intelligence informs him that there are currently three scientists in the compound, along with a couple of hired goons that aren't actually anything to do with Hydra - there used to be far more people quite evidently, given the size of the place, and Clint can't help but wonder what was being done here when it was active. That's not for him to know though; the mission brief is simple - get in, scientists are to be put down, leave the mercenaries alive unless they strike first, get out unnoticed, move to the next base. Simple.

And it does actually go surprisingly easy - given Clint is far more used to dealing with Avengers operations these days he has to admit it's almost a disappointment. He blames the stupidity of the Hydra scientists given they walk straight into his ambush; no bodyguards, nothing - just three older men in white lab coats exiting the research lab at precisely 1800 hours probably on their way to dinner. They are walking straight towards Clint from the far side of the compound when 1, 2, 3. No fuss, no show, no sound - just three successive flashes from his new bow and then there is a hole 3cm in diameter through each of the scientists foreheads. The first one hasn't even fallen to the ground before the third one is dead too. No arrows or bullets, and given repulsor blasts are comprised of muons - who's decay rate is near instant - it means there will be literally no trace left behind as to a weapon; Stark really is a genius.

The second base is much the same - the four scientists on site are sat together in a well furnished room with a fireplace burning, sipping vodka and having apparently a jolly good time. Clint takes the most pleasure in killing them if only because he's rather jealous. They have a buffet laid out on the side and did the archer mention he is absolutely starving?

Clint wonders later if it was how easy the first 2 takedowns were that the next one goes tits up. It's not a false sense of security thing, he never allows himself to relax on a mission, not too much anyway, but more like the world was giving Clint an ironic middle finger - just to remind him that he is its little bitch.

\--

The third base has more people for starters - this shouldn't actually be a problem given that they know the guards shift patterns, and all he actually has to do is sweep the compound from one side to the other. Moving North, clearing one building at a time.

It starts off well enough, it's just while he's finishing building 3 out of 5 when everything goes to shit - and all of a sudden there's floodlights on, sirens and guards swarming. All because some fucker, with no consideration whatsoever for Clint's well being, has apparently had similar ideas about taking out the base and has set off an explosion in building 4. Asshole, he's dead too when Clint gets his hands on him.

Clint decides that withdrawal is absolutely the best policy under the circumstances - building 4 is the one that was targeted with the explosives and that was the one he was headed to next. He can only hope that whoever is here isn't a total moron, and has followed at least some logical sense and taken out building 5 before exploding building 4. He would hate to be sent back to this wintery hellhole.   
  
Given the lack of white lab coats running around from what he can see through the top floor window of 3, just guns for hire in non-military issue camo, Clint is going to assume he is right and hightail his butt out of there. This would, in fact, have been quite easy - if not for the fact that the guards were doing a sweep of the remaining buildings much like his own, and he can hear around 20 voices coming up the stairwell.

He wants to scream in frustration, but instead concentrates on opening the window quietly and slipping out onto the wide sill. He can't head down the fire escape to his left, due to the fact it is right next to building 4, but hopefully, with everyone's attention focused on the flames next door, he can slip up onto the roof unnoticed. He jumps up arms outstretched, grabbing onto the guttering - his freezing hands definitely not making it any easier to keep his grip - and slowly hauls himself up over the edge of the roof. With tired arms and muscles screaming from abuse, he rolls away from the edge. Only to come face to face with the butt of an assault rifle.

Clint closes his eyes and thinks how this could not have possibly gone any worse; do intelligence communities not speak to each other anymore?! Why, fates, why? What, exactly, has he done Clint wonders, to deserve not just one, but a double middle finger from a world which just loves to taunt one Clint Barton? The blow to the head and the blackness that sinks in from the edges of his vision reassures Clint of the fact that things are not going to get any better for him anytime soon.

\--

Only they do. He's awake and not dead, he knows that much at least when he first comes round, but little more - except for the fact he's not in the compound of the base anymore. There's a wooden floor, unsanded, beneath his cheek and it's covered with a thick enough layer of dust that Clint just can't hold in the sneeze that follows.

He slowly rolls himself onto his hands and knees, taking in the environment as quickly as he can while he judges whether or not he can safely stand without falling over again. It's dark, but as his eyes have been closed they've adjusted very quickly to that.

What he isn't expecting is the tall scary looking man stood in the doorway to what must be a kitchen; well, judging from what previously may have been white tiles covered with a layer of grime anyway. The man steps towards him guns in hand, and Clint springs to feet bow raised ready. The figure clothed head to toe in black, long dark hair sweeping his shoulders, is quite frankly like something from Clint's nightmares - even more so when he drops the assault rifle aside, but now has the pistol raised and aimed at Clint's chest.

Clint wants to squeak in fear but is quite proud of himself when he doesn't - because that's just not manly, and given this guy is like the ultimate depiction of manly scary assassin guy, Clint doesn't want him to know just how frankly terrifying he finds him - instead he remains cool and calm, not moving but poised to move if he needs to.

It's only when the guy steps forwards, so that Clint can better see him in the moonlight that is seeping in from outside the massive dust covered windows, that he wants to sag in relief. Recognition flashes across his mind, and oh god, Clint is so tired and highly strung he just wants to cry; this guy's a friendly. Well, Clint hopes so anyway - the way he still has the gun aimed at Clint's chest he's not actually too sure. He's always been an optimist though so he'll take his chances.


	6. Yasha

His eyes pierce through the darkness - blue steel and wicked sharp; one of his favourite benefits of a super soldiers heightened senses - the ability to see in levels of very low light. He's able to pass unnoticed in the night, like a shadow, but for him it always appears as well lit as late afternoon - it allows him a strange sense of normalcy that he probably doesn't deserve.

His adrenal gland is working overtime, though of course his perfectly still posture would never betray that, but his muscles are wired, fully charged - ready for fight or flight at a split seconds notice. The shorter man stood across the room has tells which he doesn't - his index finger twitches as though it cannot help it, muscle memory of his bow ingrained - and he knows that the man didn't come here for a fight, but is all too prepared to have one.

He stays locked in place - like a statue, like a frozen block of ice - he's waiting for the other to make the first move, to declare his intentions here. It's a Mexican standoff of the most terrifying kind; two armed assassins primed to kill, one of them merely for killings sake. Then for the first of many times to come, the archer surprises him; no one has done that for a long time.

The blonde breaks out into a grin and vaults forwards over the back of the couch, landing sprawled against the arm; "Yo Bucky! My names Agent Barton but, formalities aside, it's actually Clint. I've not been sent here for you in particular, but what a delightful coincidence!" He sits beaming across at him and the assassin has a sudden urge to do or say something, anything, to make this strange situation and even stranger agent just stop.

That's his first thought, his second thought is that this absolute buffoon has left himself unprotected and wide-open to attack; bow cast aside, and sprawled out with his front completely exposed to damage. His only reaction to any of this is a single blink and a slight widening of the eyes of course, he is ice - and he will not let this strange little man know that he is taken aback. Not even so much by the archers actions, but by the fact he has used his name. Well, not his name, a name that used belong to the person who owned this body 70 years ago. Whatever.

The agent is still smiling at him; and he just wants him to stop doing that already, but the only way he knows how to make people do that, to make people shut up and leave him alone, is fear - so he raises the pistol he has had trained on the other this entire time - barrel pointing directly at the space above said agent's heart. Unlike the others though, the archer doesn't even flinch. That pisses him off more than anything, the lack of a reaction, it's like this guy isn't even afraid of him and that's just ridiculous because he knows he is - he must be. Everybody is. He knows this, is sure of this - more sure than anything else he knows; that people are afraid of him, well, more so the myth than anything else - the ghost in the machine, the Winter Soldier, Hydra's secret weapon.

But this guy... even if he is afraid - which he must be, he has to be - refuses to show it. Not even a sense of healthy caution for the heartless assassin with lightning reflexes, who, may he remind him, currently has a pistol with three rounds in the chamber trained on his unprotected chest.

At this point he's not sure if the guy is maybe just insane, he thinks that, actually, that's quite possible - especially given that this is the same man who fought both an alien invasion and Ultron with a Palaeolithic era flying stick thrower. He reassures himself that it's a perfectly normal reaction, when he finds it so hard to resist the urge to just shout "are you crazy?!" But of course he does. He's emotionless, cold. He'll keep telling himself that anyway.

It appears that the assassin's introspections have gone on a little too long for the agents likings when the other starts tapping his foot and humming to himself, head thrown back admiring the ceiling. His throat is completely bared in doing so, and the soldier at this point internally despairs - along with deciding that he really just wants to sit the other man down in front of a blackboard and give him a one-to-one lesson on how not to leave yourself completely exposed to enemies, and maintain at least a small sense of self preservation. Jesus. The irony is also not entirely lost on him that he is considering teaching "how better to protect yourself" to the very man he currently has a gun trained on. He doesn't ponder on that for very long though, because thinking thoughts like that makes his head hurt.

Instead, he tucks the gun back into his thigh holster and releases his locked muscles because, really, does he realistically expect himself to shoot this man? It would be like shooting a small, naive woodland animal - one that is completely trusting and defenceless. The soldier moves slowly over to the armchair facing the archer, a low coffee table between them like a barrier, and sits carefully and precisely - not slouched and relaxed as the other man is.

The agent has stopped humming to himself, and instead is regarding the now seated assassin with a smug look. "See, it wasn't that hard, now was it?" His eyes are alive with humour, and actually, the soldier finds he resents that more than anything else - because his own eyes may be sharp and bright, but you could never describe them as alive. They're like a knife; calculating, cold and deadly. He resents it because he is well aware that the other man has also committed atrocities, yet without even needing to be made a weapon of Hydra; he looks more alive and joyful than the assassin ever will, and that breaks something inside of him - because the archer in front of him made a choice to do what he did before he joined S.H.I.E.L.D and the Avengers.. He never had that choice himself, he was used.

The assassin still says nothing, and doesn't stop to even consider why he has made this self inflicted vow of silence - he merely studies the man across from him, who is now leaning forwards with his elbows balanced on his knees studying him right back.

"Clint," the man who must be Clint emphasises slowly, pointing to himself, and really, does this idiot, this naive, trusting fool, think that the assassin is the stupid one?! He rolls his eyes and the archer, Clint, gleams - because that is the most response he has got out of the other so far. It is at this point that the soldier realises that Clint sees this as a game and he is, in fact, loosing. Damn it.

Clint leans back again apparently satisfied; "so.. Bucky, right? Glad you put the gun away, man - thanks for that one! After clearing a couple of Hydra bases before I even followed you here, the last thing I wanted tonight was more action!" He mock yawns and stretches even as he throws a wink the soldiers way, and by god if he makes sure this time his response is impassive - even as he wants to hold his head in his hands and sigh.

Something still troubles him about Clint using that name though, and shit, he must have given something away there because Clint has sensed his reaction to it - raising an eyebrow and enquiring "so not Bucky then..?"

At first the soldier is tempted to let silence be his response, but then he gives in and shakes his head. Clint gives him a knowing look, and he is actually grateful for the "don't worry, I'm not always Clint Barton either" followed up by a reassuring smile.

He won't let himself relax, he remains impassive, but some of the tension he didn't even realise he has been holding onto leaks away and he sinks further back into the armchair. Clint seems to take it as a small victory won.

"Soooo," and oh my god, is this guy going to give it a rest, like, at all?! "What shall I call you nameless stranger?" No, apparently he's not.

"James? Barnes? Jamie..?" Clint throws him another grin, all teeth and eyes crinkled up closed and, oh god, how the assassin wants to just punch him in the face.

He feels vindicated in a way when he takes Clint by surprise; "Яша"(Yasha). It's short and clipped when he speaks, and he's surprised when it sounds more like the other guy, James Barnes, voice used to - not like the spine chilling growl of the Winter Soldier. He's not sure if he's pleased about this development or not, but he's not given time to think about it, because Clint has taken the proffered olive branch and is running with it.

"Sooo like the Russian version of James? Яков?"(Yakov). Clint doesn't mention that yes, Yasha is technically just Russian for James, but it's the diminutive version - like a pet name, and all of a suddenly the assassin is fighting back the urge to get up and walk out, why did he do that, and is so so grateful that Clint hasn't passed comment on it.

Clint just hmms and repeats "Yasha" nodding to himself as though it fits, "I suppose after 70 years of being a Russian super assassin you'd probably feel more comfortable speaking Russian anyway, huh?"

The soldier, wait, Yasha, nods - both for Clint's and his own benefit he thinks. He's not entirely sure what he's comfortable with if he were to be honest with himself - not really sure if he's comfortable speaking at all - but the way Russian sounds in Clint's mouth, loose vowels and rolled r's, is vaguely familiar and comforting. Yasha hasn't had this much human interaction in a long time, and he'll take what he can get if Clint's trying to make it as easy as possible for him.

He will never admit it, not even to himself, but the way his world has been ripped away from underneath him is vaguely disconcerting. First he was James Barnes, Bucky, - a proud man, a good friend, and an even better soldier. Then he was nothing. A machine, a tool to be used, his mind wiped so many times he was vaguely surprised to find he has any kind of mental capacity left. His time with HYDRA and the KGB.. He remembers, and as emotionless as his programming has made him, since running into Steve in New York and having that switch in his brain flipped to "on".. He's a mess. He doesn't remember much, just bits and pieces, but while he isn't James Barnes he certainly isn't the Winter Soldier - and he feels an unmanageable level of disgust both for himself, and the things he's done. It's why he ran from New York, but now Clint has found him, and Yasha doesn't know what that means.

"You doing okay..?" Clint's voice is soft; he's not as over enthusiastic as earlier and he seems genuinely concerned, and even though Yasha doesn't understand why.. He'll take what he can get.

He nods carefully, then pauses to consider; "Нет, я не очень хорошо" (no, I'm not so good). He shakes his head and looks up at Clint through the bangs that have fallen forwards, he feel vulnerable and god, this is perhaps the first time in 70 years he's been able to admit that to anyone. Clint nods as though it's to be expected, and, actually, the archer looks like he's kind of glad he's been honest.

"Don't worry," Clint offers him a small smile - it's not like the over the top one from earlier either - this is real and feels kind of raw, "from someone with experience rehabilitating ex-KGB assassins, this is normal and, much as you may not believe me right now, it gets better."

Yasha nods and closes his eyes; "I hope so."

They sleep then; Clint splayed out on the sofa, and Yasha slouched in the chair opposite - and it's freezing and uncomfortable but they've both dealt with worse, even if they don't want to talk about that right now. Yasha doesn't want to close his eyes but he's tired, and Clint is Steve's friend, so he's not at any risk from him at least.

Saturday comes quicker than both of them need.


	7. Clint

When Clint wakes its daylight, though the sun isn't far above the horizon yet, and the first thing he notices is that the chair across from him is empty. So, was that it he wonders, is Yasha gone..?

He hears a banging from the next room and yeah, he really hopes that means the ex-assassin is in fact still here, and not that Yasha is long gone, but now someone else has come to kill Clint while he's half asleep. He has to stifle a laugh at the thought of the Winter Soldiers presence being more welcome than a random intruder. That kind of irony never fails to amuse him. 

He stretches and slowly hauls himself to his feet, doing a quick stock check of his health as he pats himself down. No injuries to show except his still-aching head, and he figures his hair is probably hiding a pretty bad bruise, but other than that nada. Well, the cramps from sleeping where he did are pretty bad, and the cold has actually seeped into his bones at this point, but other than that.. Yeah, he's good. 

He follows where the noise was coming from and pushes open the bathroom door. Oh, there's Yasha. The guy was trying to get the taps to work by the sounds of it, but doesn't seem to be having any luck. 

Clint raises an eyebrow in question and gets "pipes are frozen" as a response. He nods, okay.

He reaches for his comm unit figuring he'll radio in as mission complete and await pickup, and it's only when he finds it missing that he thinks shit - because now he's no lift out of this wasteland.

He runs his hand through his hair, yeah he's screwed he's sure of it; "Yasha my comms are awol, where are we?" 

The other guy shoots him a look that makes Clint's stomach squirm, and he knows the guy is probably just trying to analyse whether or not Clint is telling the truth, or whether he's about to bring all of S.H.I.E.L.D down on his head but he feels like he's being dissected. Evidently satisfied that he's telling the truth though Yasha shrugs; "Omsk." 

Clint slams his head up the doorframe in despair; and shit, that was a bad idea because he already has a head injury, but the pain is kind of welcome because yeah, okay, he and Natasha have an aircraft stored at a military facility outside Moscow.. but, even by car and driving not stop that's like 36 hours away. Clint is screwed, he is so screwed. 

Yasha must have taken note of his strange behaviour though, because he's stopped messing with the pipework and is instead looking at him questioningly, and God it must say a lot about Clint that the ex-psycho-mind-controlled-super-assassin is looking at him like he's the crazy one. 

Clint waves a hand dismissively; "I have a plane in Moscow, we are very far from Moscow, I need to get home before I'm declared MIA or dead." 

And Yasha smiles and okay, you know what, it may not be a proper smile because it doesn't quite reach his eyes, but it's the first sign of human emotion the guy's displayed so far and Clint thinks that's progress in his eyes. Because even though something sad twists in his chest when he thinks about it, he reckons that's probably the first time the guy has tried to show any positive emotion in, what, 70 years? So rather than dwell on it he smiles back, "watcha thinking?"

\--

Clint has a passport with him, it doesn't say Clint Barton, it says William Brandt, but it's his own face staring back at him - and he loves Natasha for making sure it was in his thigh holster before he left. William boards a flight in Omsk that's Moscow bound, and is there in three and a half hours.

By Saturday night he's at the facility where their plane is stored and, okay, it may be no Quinjet, but this thing was Clint's baby for years and he still runs his hand over the control panel lovingly. Stark has been allowed nowhere near it - this has all been Clint's own handiwork to maintain and upgrade. The one downside to that little fact though, is that it takes around 11 hours non-stop from Russia to the little disused private airstrip just outside New Jersey that him and Natasha use when entering the county undetected, and the plane has no autopilot. 

Clint's a wreck, and he hasn't slept properly in days, so, even though he can't wait to get his feet back on America soil and reassure his team mates that he isn't actually dead, he curls up in the back of the mini-aircraft hoping to sleep until morning. He can't switch off at first, his mind is too full of questions with very few answers - he wonders what he's supposed to tell S.H.I.E.L.D about the mission, whether he should tell them about the Winter Soldier, and what he's supposed to tell Steve about James Barnes.

Clint doesn't want to tell any of them anything, kinda because he wants to keep this for himself, and kinda because Yasha had begged him not to - and even though the man with the long dark hair and sad blue eyes isn't actually the Winter Soldier, because that guy was just an empty vessel for Hydra's training - it's hard to imagine, given what it must have taken for a literal living legend to resort to begging Clint of all people, to then betray his trust. 

Yasha may not be the Winter Soldier, but he's also not ready to be James Barnes.

\--

Clint had asked him if he was coming with, back to America, and Yasha had looked at him with those too sad eyes and shrugged. It was like he literally did not know what to do now that Hydra wasn't pulling his strings anymore. It had been too long since he had been able to make decisions, have choices, that it seemed the guy wished someone would just take the decision out of his hands. 

Clint's seen this before; it had taken a long time for them to take the pieces of Natalia Romanova apart and put Natasha Romanoff back together. He never thought he'd have to do anything like this again, but Yasha isn't ready to see Steve again, isn't ready for the world to know who he is. Not while he doesn't know himself. 

His eyes are as haunted as Tasha's were, but in some ways, he actually reminds him more of a lost child than she ever did. Clint supposes that has something to do with the fact that yes, Nat was an asset, but.. Her actions were her own. She was an assassin by choice. Yasha just looks confused and alone, unsure of his place in the world. 

It took a long time to fix his Natka; she had come to them after Clint had saved her life, shown mercy to a foreign enemy, and he and Coulson had offered her a place of safety. She had been ashamed of her past and the blood on her hands, but Fury had given her a chance to atone for everything she had done - in order that the future may be a little brighter. 

Clint hopes that Yasha gets the same chance someday, because, if anything, he is the innocent in all of this mess. Yasha had just been a good little soldier fighting in a just war until he'd been taken apart and left empty. 

That's when it hits Clint like a ton of bricks; given he wasn't actually himself for the past 70 years - just a shell constantly in and out of cryo, frozen in time, and the poor guy doesn't really remember much of his time awake anyway - Yasha is actually only in his mid-20's. For some reason that makes Clint unreasonably angry and sad at the same time.

He turns on his side and sleep comes easy, even as he wishes that the other man hadn't stayed behind because, as terrifying and empty as as he is now, Clint is convinced there is a chance he could be fixed. If Clint could be fixed, there was hope for everybody.

\--

Clint wakes to something heavy draped over his body, and while at first he snuggles further into what on closer inspection turns out to be a blanket, he startles awake when he realises nope, there should be no blankets here. He is on an airstrip in Russia, not tucked up at home in his bed. 

Blue eyes look back at him and Clint falls back to the floor with a clunk, ignoring the warning his head sends him because damn, get over yourself bump and heal already!

Clint jumps to his feet even as Yasha stays put where he is; curled up against the aircraft wall with a nest of blankets around him. He's surprised, he'd have thought the guy would quickly become defensive but no, he seems happy enough to carry on doing one of the best burrito impersonations Clint has ever seen.

Clint runs a hand through his hair and throws the guy an easy smile, "you're coming?" The smile isn't returned, and the other guy's stare is cold and calculating, but the nod he receives is enough for Clint. He knows Yasha isn't that bad anyway, despite what the man himself would like Clint to believe; if he really was as big, bad and scary as he made out, he wouldn't have sacrificed one of his blankets for Clint. The gesture of goodwill isn't lost on him, so it's an easy silence that sees the next 6 hours pass while they're in the air and Yasha sleeps. 

He joins Clint when he wakes, there's five hours flight time still to go and Clint finds it hard to resist the small smile that wants to creep over his face when he notices that, even though Yasha is now sat in the copilots chair, he has brought the blankets with him. 

He's pretty sure he's not actually smiling, but he must give something away because a quick dig to his ribs from the metal arm follows and ow, seriously, know your strength please kid. It wasn't that hard though, and muffled by four or five layers of blankets, so Clint can't really hold a grudge. 

"I hate the cold" is the proffered explanation, and Clint nods like that makes sense. He supposes, despite the now slightly ironic Winter Soldier moniker, if you've been held in Cryo for 70 years you're allowed to have an unhealthy dislike of the cold. Wrapped in his blanket nest Yasha soon falls asleep again beside him, and Clint really doesn't have the heart to push him away when he finds a head resting on his right shoulder shortly afterwards. 

\--

Clint had woken around 7am back in Moscow, and with the flight taking around 11 hours he guesses, accounting for the 8 hour time difference, it's still only around 10am here in New York. 

He's exhausted and all he wants is to get home and sleep for maybe the next 24 hours. He's well aware that at some point he will have to notify everyone that he is, in fact, still alive, but given that it's Sunday morning, and his mission was supposed to last until around Saturday night at the earliest anyway.. Never mind extraction time and actually flying home, Clint figures he has at least 24 hours before anyone starts to really worry. 

Clint pushes the lax figure next to him into a vaguely upright position so he can remove his harness and stretch; Yasha had been awake for an hour or so before they landed, but hadn't moved from his position slumped up against Clint's side. Clint didn't think he minded, the warmth was welcome. 

The other man blinks sleepily up at him and Clint has to restrain a laugh. "I'm heading home here buddy, this is American soil." Yasha nods and stands waiting for Clint to lead the way off of the plane, and, okay, Clint was going to ask him if he was coming with him, or wanted to go find Steve or do, you know, whatever, but he's just following Clint, still with several blankets wrapped around him, as he walks towards the entrance of the airfield. 

Okay, Clint thinks rationally, he can deal with this; it's just like those guys who bring puppies home from Afghanistan or whatever. Just this puppy happens to be a 6ft-whatever super soldier ex-assassin, and is currently being hunted by S.H.I.E.L.D. It's cool. Clint has to admit though, the guy does have the sad puppy eyes down pat. 

There's a main road running by the airstrip and it takes all of two minutes to hail a cab; Clint is actually surprised anyone stopped, given the fact that without his tac gear - which is stuffed in the black pack slung over his shoulder - he looks like a jogger who got lost stood in just his Stark-tech thermals. Yasha is an even worse sight, his hair is pulled back in a loose bun so he doesn't look all that intimidating, but he still has those blankets wrapped around him, and Clint thinks they must have found the most chill taxi driver in the whole city. 

They pull up outside Clint's apartment in Bed-Stuy and Clint thanks the taxi driver - making sure to give the guy a good tip as a thanks for the lack of questions. He carefully prods Yasha awake where he is already dozing, and jeez, when he unlocks the door and throws his bag to the side Clint is sure glad to be home. 

He makes a mental to-do list; shower, food, sleep and decides he doesn't have time for the confused-but-still-trying-to-be-scary look Yasha is throwing him as he lingers by the front door. This guy catnapped on him all the way from Russia, he has no power over Clint anymore. 

Clint grabs his arm and, though he has to admit he is surprised by how pliant the other man is, drags him over to the bathroom. He prods him inside and asks "have you used a modern shower?" It's only when Yasha shakes his head no, and looks almost embarrassed to admit it, Clint softens. He sets the shower going and makes sure the temperatures warm enough before handing the other guy a towel from the airing cupboard. "I'm going to put something to eat on okay? I'll leave some clothes outside the door that should fit." Yasha nods and Clint leaves him to it. 

After finding the poor guy a pair of sweats and a large soft hoodie, Clint spends a few minutes digging through the freezer before triumphantly pulling out smiley potato faces and chicken dippers because, obviously, those are perfectly acceptable foods for a super-secret-spy and functional adult male to eat, okay? 

He's not even convincing himself with that one to be honest, but he throws them in the oven anyway, setting the timer before jumping over the back of the sofa and into his most favourite position ever. 

He flicks through the channels and leaves it on the weekly sports review, because that's what Sunday's are for, and feels himself starting to drift off until a drop of water lands on his face. He blinks up and Yasha is peering down at him, hair still wet and, oh, that's where the drip came from. Under any other circumstances Clint would probably have found this precise moment terrifying, but he's too tired to care right now, so instead he just rolls off the edge onto his feet and heads for the shower himself. 

He tries to be quick because he's hungry, but he still takes his time massaging conditioner into his hair because urgh, head massages, and also Clint's tired and his head hurts. He dresses in record time afterwards, soft purple hoodie and tartan sleep pants he's had for god knows how long, before going to grab the food from the oven.

He hands a plate to Yasha, who has stolen Clint's spot on the couch, and slouches down beside him. The poor guy looks confused, and though it takes Clint a minute to work out why, he can't contain his laughter when he realises oh, it's because he's never seen potatoes that smile at you and chicken shaped like little dinosaurs before. Yasha glares at him and Clint just good naturedly pokes him in the side; "it's food, it won't hurt you!" He picks up a chicken dipper shaped like a tyrannosaur and bites it's head off. "See?"

Okay, and maybe his newly adopted Russian demon-puppy looks slightly too traumatised with what just occurred for Clint to be entirely comfortable, and he makes a quick mental note that, sure, no more food that looks like things. 

It's his reaction to the smiley faces that really gets Clint though; especially when his heart looks like it's broken in two after his first bite is more like a nibble, only removing the lower jaw of the smiley so it goes from :D to :( . The rest he eats with his eyes closed, and the sight is so uncharacteristically innocent that Clint can't even bring himself to laugh (even if he really wants to).

Clint can feel himself fading fast so after they've eaten he dumps the plates in the sink for later; he points Yasha in the direction of the guest room next door to his own, Nat stays over a lot so the bed is always made up ready, before throwing himself face down on his king size bed. And relax. Ohhhh how he loves this bed. The covers are purple and soft and he sinks into it feeling just about the happiest, most comfortable man alive. He puts his cell on charge before he falls asleep, remembering that he should really probably make sure his friends know he isn't dead now that he's back in network range, and then he's gone. Lights out. 

\--

It's dark outside when he wakes, but then, it's getting closer to wintertime so he really shouldn't be surprised by that at all. His body clock is telling him that it's probably only about 5pm though, which means around 5 hours sleep has occurred - Clint is still exhausted, but his ingrained training means he needs to find out what woke him before he can go back to sleep comfortably. It takes precisely two seconds to work that out when he rolls over to the edge of the bed and finds Yasha asleep on the floor beside him; Clint's chest does this funny thing where it tightens unexpectedly, and he just wants to fix this poor broken man. 

He's laying face down, dark hair fanned out on the white pillow, and he must have dragged that and the quilt in with him so that's probably what woke Clint. He leans over and touches the other guys right shoulder gently, he can't be asleep again yet and Clint definitely wouldn't try that if he was, because waking a sleeping lion much? Asking for trouble. He rolls over a little, instantly alert, and blinks up at Clint. He looks so open and embarrassed simultaneously that Clint thinks it's almost not right for anyone to see him like this.

"I'm sorry, I'll go back to the other room if I'm bothering you.. I just don't want to forget where I am" his words are soft and hesitant, and Yasha cuts himself off as though he didn't mean to say that, and just, oh, Clint is so taken by surprise that his throat tightens. He's a sap, a sap that's probably going to get himself slaughtered in cold blood.

Without thinking about it too much he grabs the other mans arm, the real one, and drags him up onto the bed beside him; - rolling over to make room. Yasha doesn't resist and comes willingly, slipping under the duvet beside him, and he looks so surprised but also grateful that Clint thinks his stomach twists a little. How long since this man was shown kindness..?

Right now they're both exhausted, and sleep comes within minutes, Yasha's head is tucked underneath Clint's chin so the soft dark hair tickles his nose, and Clint has his left arm wrapped almost possessively around the other's shoulders. If Clint notices the soft grip Yasha has on him, where he's wound his right hand into the soft fabric of Clint's hoodie.. Well, he's not going to say anything.


	8. Yasha

He wakes warm and comfortable, and he can't remember feeling like this before, ever, and so he refuses to open his eyes and admit that he's awake. Not yet, he just wants to enjoy this for a little while longer, just incase he never gets the opportunity again.

He can tell Clint's awake by the heartbeat that rests beneath the fingers of his still human arm, and Yasha refuses to allow himself to be embarrassed, no matter how much he really wants to, about the fact he's still holding on to the front of Clint's sweater. If he flushes now he'll ruin it because Clint will know he's awake, and he feels happy and safe here and that's a new feeling, and he definitely doesn't want to have to wake up and lose that.

He's not sure how long he lies there pretending, but he's glad Clint is an assassin too because he has the patience of a saint to stay still this long whilst awake. He's moved his left arm from around Yasha's shoulders though, and it's now running fingers through the lengths of his long brown hair, which is clean for the first time in so so long, and he thinks that this is maybe what heaven feels like. 

Clint presses his forehead to Yasha's own and whispers "Доброе утро" (good morning) and .. Oh. Clint has known he was awake this entire time. Shame flushes across Yasha's cheeks because this, this is embarrassing; needy and indulging just like a small child. Clint has wrapped his arm back around his shoulders though, holding him in place even as his mind is screaming at him to pull away because he is such a fool, but maybe, Yasha thinks, maybe it's okay if Clint doesn't mind too. So he drowns out the protesting noise of his own sub-conscience by focusing on the sound of the archer's breathing instead. He thinks he maybe falls asleep a bit. 

They stay like that for a while longer.

\--

It's nearly lunchtime on Monday before they wake again and really, Yasha is actually impressed that they've managed around 24 hours of sleep - because yes, that had actually been what Clint was planning, he'd told him so on the plane, but he didn't think he'd actually manage; especially given both his nightmare haunted sleep, and the fact that he'd already slept for 9 or so hours on the way from Russia. 

Nightmares.. Yasha blinks in surprise when he realises that actually, he hasn't had a single one in a whole 24 hours of sleep. Or on the plane. Oh, if this was Clint's doing, he is definitely keeping him; Clint gets no choice in the matter. 

The archer appears to be in a good mood too, well, if the humming to himself as he searches through his closet for something to wear is anything to go by anyway. Although, the ex-assassin has to wonder, is the man ever not in a good mood? He appears to Yasha to just be one of those people who is always cheerful. He wouldn't know much about feeling like that himself. 

Something lands on the bed beside him and he sits up to take a closer look; examination of the bundle yields a soft blue flannel shirt, long sleeves of course, a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt. Clint's smiling at him from across the room and it's so hard for him to resist mirroring that, instead maintaining his usual stoicism. "Get dressed," Clint wanders into the bathroom across the hall, "we're going for breakfast, I want waffles and bacon."

And Yasha finds a smile of his own tugging at the corners of his mouth because that sounds wonderful actually; there's so many things he has to taste and try and he can't wait.

\--

Early afternoon finds them at an all day breakfast place, Ms Dahlias cafe, only a few minutes from Clint's apartment. Yasha was apparently born and raised in Brooklyn but everything is so so different from what little he can even remember - and though he doesn't want to admit it, even to himself, he feels slightly overwhelmed by everything. Even to mentally refer to himself as American is a struggle, his subconscious mind still thinks of him as Russian and that's.. Confusing. 

Rather than let his thoughts run in circles, he's concentrating on the plate of waffles and bacon in front of him; if he thinks about this too much his head starts to hurt, so he's going to pretend for now that he's a tourist seeing all of this for the very first time. He wants desperately to remember, because every day since he 'woke' he feels less and less like the Winter Soldier, but he can hardly remember anything about who he was supposed to be before - and it hurts feeling empty. He wants to be able to see Steve someday soon, to be the James Barnes the guy remembers, but Yasha can barely remember anything about himself beyond the name he used to wear. He feels like a new thing that doesn't really know much about itself at all, and he knows that's bad. He's not supposed to enjoy feeling that way either. He's supposed to want to feel better. 

Clint pokes him under the table, and shit the strain must have been evident on Yasha's face, but even though he wants to growl at the other man, he won't admit how welcome a distraction the archer is from the frustration he feels. Clint is still speaking to him in Russian and Yasha is grateful for the efforts the other man is going to; the language sounds natural in the others mouth, and over the last few days he's been losing the slight American twang that had left his consonants too clipped. 

"Sooo, Prospect Park?" Clint has his head tilted to one side in question and Yasha remembers that name, he's not sure where from, but it's definitely familiar. The archer has obviously sensed his confusion though which is a relief, because he hates voicing it when he's struggling and doesn't know something. Clint grins "Big park, been there since 1867, Steve went when he first got back to New York because he said you guys went a lot as kids." And oh, that sounds nice. Familiar places may help him remember after all. 

He's a little apprehensive about being out in public though, especially in such a wide open space with so many people, what if somebody recognises him? Clint assures him that the last place S.H.I.E.L.D will be looking for him is in New York though, and anyway, what with the way he's dressed and his stubble freshly shaved, hair pulled up in a loose bun, Clint has assured him he looks more like a coffee house hipster than an ex-assassin super soldier. He's probably right. Yasha is still very grateful for the pair of leather gloves that hide his metal appendage though. 

He follows Clint the sixteen blocks towards Prospect, and they reach the park where eastern parkway meets the Brooklyn Museum; he doesn't want to disturb the comfortable silence to ask where they're going though, so when Clint keeps walking when they enter the park he stays quiet, just observing. Oh. After they pass what looks like a library Yasha can clearly see where Clint's leading him; the Grand Army Plaza and the soldiers and sailors memorial arch. 

They sit on the grass and watch for a while; this is all vaguely familiar, and though he can't quite recall any memories of this place, it's comforting to at least know he has been here before. They don't talk, but Yasha leans into Clint slightly where he's sat beside him; it's hard to voice his thanks but he really hopes the Archer gets what he's trying to convey. The small smile playing around Clint's lips tell him that he does. 

\--

They have to stand eventually - as interesting as people watching is, it's getting closer to winter, and even though it's still only late afternoon the sky is darkening, and there's a chill. Yasha is grateful for the warm scarf wrapped around his neck. Clint grabs his arm and starts walking in the direction of what's signposted as Prospect Heights, and though he really wishes he'd stop doing that he doesn't protest. 

He realises where they're going when they reach a line of shops, and Clint drags him into a brightly lit store with American Apparel written above the shop front. Clint has a grin that screams 'I'm bad and I don't care', and Yasha wonders if he should be worried, even as the archer pulls a plastic card out of his pocket. 

"Stark's Avengers emergency fund, think this counts as an emergency?" Clint eyes are dancing with laughter and Yasha can't help but nod, yeah, this probably counts. 

\--

Five white t-shirts, three flannels, a denim jacket, a soft grey hoodie, a cream knitted sweater, two pairs of jeans, a pair of sweats, underwear and a pair of tennis shoes later, and they're headed back to Clint's apartment, bags in hand. It's not the type of clothing he would have picked for himself, subconsciously gravitating towards the chinos and pressed shirts, but Clint had shaken his head and assured him that dress-sense had changed in the last 70 years, and he'd chosen what would help him blend in. Yasha doesn't know any different so he'd just nodded and accepted Clint's choices. 

They stop at a grocery store a block from Clint's apartment so he can grab milk, tomatoes and chicken, and within half an hour of getting back the smell of basil, oregano and pan-fried chicken just kind of hangs in the air. Clint is a good cook and that's something Yasha really appreciates - he hasn't had a home cooked meal in a whole 70 years, Hydra and the KGB had kept him alive on nutrient packets, and the taste of real food makes his eyes itch in a strange way that makes him not want to think about that. 

He distracts himself by flicking through movie channels after changing into his new sweats, and the hoodie Clint had lent him the previous night; he now has one of his own, but for some reason that he's not going to examine right now, he prefers this one. Everything on TV is so strange, he thinks. He can't understand what are obviously cultural references, and everything is too bright and shiny. 

Clint sits beside him and hands him a plate of chicken pasta, and that's when it hits Yasha how comfortable this is; Clint didn't have to do this, bring him back with him - welcome him into his home, clothe him and feed him - and Yasha is so so grateful that he did that he turns and buries his face into the other guys shoulder. His eyes are maybe a little wet but he's going to pretend they're not, because who in gods name has ever cried over a plate of chicken pasta?

But it's all just a little overwhelming, and Yasha knows Clint isn't falling for his big-bad-scary routine anymore, so who's he even trying to kid..? He lets himself feel for the first time in 70 years and its raw and it hurts, but after he's done he feels a little better - so he eats the food he's been given whilst nestled into Clint's side. The archer hasn't said anything, but while he eats with his right hand, his left has found its way to bury in Yasha's hair and after he's finished eating he finds the soft circles are making him sleepy. Full, warm and comfortable, he falls asleep wondering if maybe this is what happy feels like.


	9. Tony

The other Avengers have left - four of them away back to base, and Clint away on a mission. Tony hates to admit it, can barely bring himself to do so actually; but he's pretty sure he's a little lonely. It's not like he misses a particular person either, it's more, that the tower is just too big and empty when he's here on his own, and if that isn't just about the saddest thing he's ever heard, he doesn't know what is. He tries to take a nap, but that only lasts for a couple of hours so it's fairly short lived, and then all of a sudden it's Thursday night, he has no projects left to work on, but he's bored out of his mind and feeling restless.

He tries to watch TV in the Rec room for a bit, some mind-destroying program about these sisters - all of whom have strangely big butts - which he hopes will be boring enough to put him back to sleep. It doesn't last long though, because from where they're piled on table the abandoned pizza boxes are looking at him, and Tony doesn't like that so he leaves.

He takes a pot of coffee down to his workshop and brings up a new file; okay, nothing to work on? Start on something new. There is perhaps one person in the world right now who doesn't completely hate Tony, who may be a little apprehensive of things he can do, but who understands him better than anyone else. Bruce banner.

The thing is, Banner just gets him the way no one else ever will. He doesn't try to push Tony to be anyone other than himself; Tony can be a complete mess who doesn't sleep, works too hard, makes mistakes - and Bruce doesn't judge him for it. It's a welcome reprieve from the judging stares and rolled eyes he gets from everyone else around him, and Tony thinks that perhaps if Bruce came back to New York, some of his empty spaces might just go away.

It's a long shot, Tony thinks, Bruce is hiding so he obviously doesn't want to come back, but Tony knows he isn't just running from  
Tony and the things that he did; Bruce is running from himself too. He's sure that if they can find him they'll think of something to make him want to return, and so Tony decides he will work solidly throughout the night and all through tomorrow; however long it takes before he at least has something to go on.

\--

Tony breathes a sigh of relief; it's 5am Friday morning according to the digital readout, and even if there are perhaps a few too many bottles that have been sampled on the workbench next to him, well.. He obviously just focuses far better under the influence of alcohol.

It's like his brain is unfiltered; leaping from one thought to the next, none of his synapses firing in the right order, but somehow it works - and he might actually be onto something here. There have been no sightings of the Hulk, and Banner himself isn't known well enough world-wide as an Avenger that people would bother to note sightings of Bruce himself, so he's tried what is known as a learning search algorithm. The algorithm has an objective, it knows it's looking for patterns, but rather than giving it specific search parameters in terms of how to sort data, what signs it should be looking for etc., it has the capacity to adapt itself and develop the search tools it needs to find results. It's like the algorithm is specifically evolving for one purpose, and will develop the tools it needs to better fit that purpose.

He's spent hours working on it, stopping only to sip from whatever glass bottle happens to be within arms length, and now he's set it trawling through world news databases. All that's left to do is wait, but if Bruce so much as sneezes funny, eventually with enough refinements these algorithms will be able to give a time and location for the event. Tony is actually rather pleased with himself, though he'll be slightly less highly strung when they actually turn out a result. He hates waiting.

He pushes his chair away, making to go throw himself down on the couch in the corner of the workshop, and is surprised to find he's slightly more off balance than he thought he would be. His perception is off slightly, and he nearly misses the edge of the of the cushion when he falls backwards, but within five minutes of laying down he's fast asleep. He's not concerned about monitoring the algorithms output, FRIDAY will alert him if anythings found.

\--

He wakes 16 hours later with a sore head and a cramp in his back, but it only takes him a few seconds to process that it was the blue flashing light of a notification that woke him, and he near trips in his haste back to his workstation. It's found something; a string of news paper headlines all grouped around a similar geographic area that detail a doctor performing 'miracles'; Tony isn't sure, but it's the best lead they've had so far.

\--

\--

He stretches and abandons his work, he knows he needs to tell the others and S.H.I.E.L.D of this development at some point in the near future, but first he's going to be selfish and shower and grab himself coffee; he feels a little light headed. He doesn't know how long he spends in the shower, but it's certainly a while - long enough that his fingertips have wrinkled anyway.

\--

He laid fresh clothes out on his bed before he went to shower, and as he pulls them on he find he's unreasonably grateful for the comforting warmth of the soft black hoodie that's a couple of sizes too big for him. He's got his flight suit thermals on his bottom half because yeah he's going to have to go see the Avengers at some point tonight, but takes his time over a pot of coffee and a protein bar first. It's nearly 10pm by the time he activates the bracelets and feels the armour assembling around him, and he hopes that the others are actually still awake - they're not all allergic to a circadian rhythm as he apparently is after all.

The flight time isn't long, the base is only a few miles upstate, but it's long enough for Tony to notice that the suit is a little too big for him even with a thick hoodie on, and that's a little annoying. He'll have to recalibrate that back at his lab later. When was the last time he was in the suit anyway? A month ago? Two months ago? Whenever the Battle with Ultron had finished anyway. He's pretty sure he only actually used the suit once in the week following the final battle, and that was the last time. Hm. Maybe he should get out more.

He finds the flight is actually too short by the time he gets there, even though he's not moving particularly quickly, because what if the others aren't happy to see him? I mean, he is just dropping by kind of unannounced, and they'd all be well within their rights to tell him to come back during sociable hours.

His indecision is almost enough to make him turn around and go home, and jeez Stark that's not going to look weird given the scanners will have already picked him up as incoming five minutes ago. He decides that now he's there he might as well go ahead; he can always say that he's just there to see Rhodey if anyone says anything, or they're all sleeping. He could do with seeing him anyway, it's been too long since they've had a movie night and caught up properly; and with that Tony feels a slight twinge of guilt, because he knows that's his fault entirely.

He lands on the roof quietly and Christ what happened here..?! No one mentioned anything yesterday, is this recent? Have they all been attacked and no one said anything?! Tony feels his heart pick up in his chest as he surveys the damage to the Avengers base, using the 3d scanner on his interface to have FRIDAY assess the internal structural damage.

He's slightly on edge, so it's completely not his fault when he near screams as Natasha appears beside him. Nope, not his fault, she just kind of appears from nowhere in the darkness and Tony is currently under the impression that they were recently under attack. He's just glad the external speakers for the suit aren't on, and that Natasha isn't wearing any comms. She would never let him live that down.

"Let's go Stark, the others are in the rec room."

And okay Tony can do this, he just needs his heartbeat to slow down just a teensy bit and then he'll be fine. Any excuse about only being here to see Rhodey dies on his lips, and he follows her without protest.

 


	10. Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double post today because I've not updated in like three days >.

Steve is in the gym training with Sam when one of the on-site S.H.I.E.L.D agents announces over the gym tannoy that Ironman has just landed. That's surprising - Steve is pretty sure Tony hadn't announced his intentions to drop by today when they'd been at the tower yesterday, added to the fact it was pretty late at night. He seriously hoped nothing was wrong.

He and Sam headed down to the rec room where Natasha and Rhodes were already waiting. "Hey Rhodes, your buddy message ahead to let you know he'd be dropping by..?"

James Rhodes briefly looks up to shake his head, then let's it fall onto the arm of the sofa where he's sprawled on his back completely relaxed. "Nahhh, but he never does. This is Tony, he probably just thought of something he really wants to tell us. Guy's brain works a million miles per second, do you really think he stops to consider common courtesy things like calling ahead..?"

And Steve has to give him that to be honest, yeah he can't really see Stark stopping to remember to call someone or just send them a text. He gets too caught up in things. Natasha has already slipped out of the door to the fire escape to go fetch him, so Steve just sinks onto the couch opposite Rhodes' claimed domain.

They appear a few minutes later, Stark's already stripping out of the Ironman armour, and as soon as he's free of it he's throwing himself on the sofa on top of Rhodes. Who to his credit, Steve thinks, gives surprisingly little complaint, although he does make an attempt to haul himself a little more upright so that Natasha can claim the end seat for herself.

"Rhodey-bear did you get attacked and not tell me..?" And Jesus, Stark is literally sat in guys lap and pouting up at him. Steve wonders if the board of the billion dollar company he runs know that this is how the guy behaves when he's not posturing for the media? A little voice in the back of Steve's head tells him that quite obviously they do, which is in fact why Miss Potts runs his company for him, while the man himself gets to stay in his lab and play with his toys and robots all day.

Rhodes is completely unabashed. "No Tony, we all got attacked. Nearly 3 days ago in fact. And all threats were subdued within the hour."

Stark sighs but he still looks grumpy, "could have said something when you were at the tower yesterday. What are you going to do when it rains..?"

And okay, he might actually have a point there, Steve thinks. He'd not really thought about that himself, and his room has a big hole in the ceiling. Stark shakes his head at the obvious looks of confusion on the everyone's faces, Steve would describe his sigh as one of fond exasperation, and pulls out a Stark Tablet from the pocket on the front of his sweater.

"Your complete ineptitude isn't actually what I'm here about anyway. I found Bruce, at least I think I did."

At that Steve sits up a little and starts to take notice; he can ignore the other man's jibe for now because he knows he doesn't actually mean anything by it, but finding Bruce with literally no leads and no sightings.. That's impressive. He looks across at Natasha and even though she's a hard tell, dares to say he can even see a little hope in her slightly raised eyebrows and widened eyes.

She's peering over Stark's shoulder as he taps away, on what to Steve just looks like a sheet of clear plexiglass. But Natasha's nodding in agreement and if she thinks Stark is on to something, well in Steve's opinion then he probably is. They talk amongst the two of them about triangulating, coordinates, possible future destinations if Banner continues his trend of heading eastward.

Stark turns to the rest of them with a decisive nod "Natasha thinks this is good, I'm taking her back with me tomorrow to work on it further." He looks at Steve as though considering, "If the rest of you want to join us feel free, your base is currently uninhabitable and I've not touched your floors at the tower or changed anything."

And Steve knows that was aimed at him, because asides from Natasha, well and Clint - who's not even here, Steve is the only one of them who actually has a floor at the tower. Sam wasn't an Avenger back then, and Rhodes always stays in Stark's guest room. It actually makes sense though he supposes, if Natasha is going to be helping him look for Bruce there's not much point him and the other two staying here by themselves. Especially given that Rhodes would always want to go back with Tony anyway, if given the chance.

Besides, the base isn't actually prime for occupancy right now. It would also make it a lot easier for the contractors if they weren't living here whilst they tried to get the repair work done. Steve nods his acquiescence;  
"Thanks for the offer Stark, it's appreciated."

The other man beams and then he and Rhodes are talking a mile a minute about the practicalities of it, and thank god Steve can hear the Colonel insisting they wait until tomorrow and don't just start packing things for transport right now, because he is wrecked. He clicks a random movie on with the remote that was tucked down the back of the sofa, and goes to the kitchen to put a few frozen pizzas in the oven.

\--

By the time he's back he notices that the movie has changed, but that doesn't bother him because, really, Steve still doesn't have the slightest clue about modern cinema. This ones just starting and it's something to do with dinosaurs and okay Steve can get behind that; he remembers going to the Natural History museum as a kid with Bucky and his Ma. The skeletons were bigger than Steve could ever have imagined any animal being before, until the Chitauri sailed through the portal on their sky-whales anyway. He waits fifteen minutes for the oven timer and settles in to watch the movie after he's dumped plates of pizza on the coffee table. Maybe four was too many in retrospect.

It's when the movie gets to a point when they're in something called the creation lab that Steve hears Stark pipe up "Do you think me and Bruce could..?"

Rhodes' resounding "NO Tony" as he interrupts that statement sounds pretty final to Steve, but not one to be dissuaded he hears the almost petulant "bet we could" that follows a minute later. He has to fight a grin off his face; the guy has spunk, Steve will give him that much.

"Don't you encourage him Captain Asshole!" Rhodes shoots across the room and Steve throws his hands up in a show of innocence. Stark catches his eye and grins. Rhodes is attempting to distract him though by feeding bites of pizza, by hand like a baby bird, and Stark is eating them which maybe Clint and Natasha were wrong about him being sick. It's hard to deny that Steve recognises the massively oversized sweater he's wearing as one that fit him just fine a couple of months back though. He'll keep an eye. Also possibly talk to Rhodes because he'd know better than anyone.

His attention is drawn back to the TV by the sound of roaring, and actually, Steve agrees that it's probably best that Stark doesn't go getting ideas from science fiction movies when the running and screaming starts half an hour later. They deal with enough of that already thank you very much.

\--

Steve wakes up when the movies already finished; Sam is collecting the plates and dumps them in the kitchen sink, and Natasha bids them all a good night. Rhodes across from him is still asleep, as is the pile of billionaire industrialist now curled up on his chest. Steve stretches and rolls off of the couch to land on his feet, and pads over carefully to wake the Colonel. He gives Steve a nod of thanks and waits for him to move out of the way before he smoothly stands up, Stark scooped up bridal style in his arms.

It's obviously a well practiced movement, and something curls in Steve's stomach at the sight. Which, okay he's not sure what that was, but he'll have to think about it later and go offer Sam a hand in the meantime, before Rhodes thinks he's a creepy weirdo for staring. Sam waves goodnight to his fellow pilot from the kitchen, and he gets a nod in return as Rhodes carefully opens the push door backwards with his shoulder.

Sam brings his attention back with a quick dig to his shoulder. Steve turns to glare at him; "and what was that for, exactly..?" Sam's too busy laughing to reply though, and Steve gives him a minute before he gets "someone jealous, Cap?"

He huffs at Sam before wishing him good night and stomping out of the kitchen. He is most definitely not jealous of Rhodes and Stark's friendship, even if it does make him miss the guy who was once his best friend more than anything. Because Steve once had a friend like that; who would look after him when he was sick, make him soup and feed him crackers, who would always fight his corner, and carried him off to bed when he fell asleep on the couch waiting for his Ma to get home from her shift, and there's this ache of loss in his chest that used to be filled with one James Buchanan Barnes. Okay, Steve might be a little jealous, it's just not fair is all.


	11. Tony

Tony doesn't remember falling asleep during the film, but he's conscious of someone picking him up when it's finished and that can only be Rhodey, so he presses his face into the chest he's being held against to keep the light out of his eyes. He feels rather than hears his friends soft chuckle.

He's thrown down onto a soft bed a few minutes later, and he finds himself sliding back towards sleep again quickly. He's glad when he feels Rhodey climb in beside him, he's not drunk anything tonight and contact with another human being while he sleeps helps keep the nightmares at bay. Strong arms pull him against his friends warm chest, and Tony carefully tucks his head underneath Rhodey's chin. He feels safe like this.

\--

When Tony wakes up he notices he's launched some kind of octopus attack on his friend during the night. He'd be embarrassed but he doesn't think he actually has the capacity to feel embarrassment when it comes to James Rhodes. This is the same man who hauled him naked out of a fountain at college - several times Rhodey would probably point out, and actually, again a few years ago at the annual SI Christmas party. Hmm, that seems to be a theme Tony ponders. Is it the fountain or the nakedness that appeals to his subconscious mind?

That's kind of besides the point because Rhodey's obviously awake, and the only reason he won't have moved yet is because he thinks Tony needs the sleep. Mother henning! Tony's said it before and he'll say it again. Many, many times. But Tony doesn't really care too much about that right now because he could quite happily go back to sleep here, so he's just going to go ahead and pretend that he hasn't actually woken up yet and hope that James doesn't notice.

"I know you're awake." And damn, of course he always notices. Spoiling Tony's fun.

"But Rhodey-bearrrr" his whine of protest is bleak sufferance and his friend quite obviously does not care, and doesn't have a single loving bone left in his body because he's laughing at him. Laughing! He has spent far too much time with Natasha and Tony tells him so.

He's still laughing even as he tries to extract himself from octopus!Tony, so Tony does his absolute best to resist in a twisted form of revenge. Rhodey gives up at the point he realises if he stands up now he'll have Tony attached to his back like a human limpet to contend with. His arms are locked far too forcefully around Rhodey's neck to be natural for someone his size. Tony smiles in triumph as Rhodey gives in and collapses back down beside him, he rolls over away from him and demands "hold me" knowing that Rhodey can't actually say no to him.

The air shoots out of his lungs with a whumph sound as he's pulled back by two strong arms against his best friends chest. "You're so needy!" Rhodey complains, even as his right hand starts playing with Tony's hair, his left armed wrapped firmly around his middle.

"I know." Tony smiles winningly even though he knows Rhodey can't see it. He gets a sigh huffed into the back of his neck in response.

"And your hair is too long."

"I like it." Tony grumps back.

"And you're too thin."

Tony stiffens. "What do you mean?" And no his voice doesn't crack, he's not going to cry. It's just this screams of conversations they've had in the past, it seems a million times before, and Tony isn't ready to have that same conversation again now.

"Tones.." Rhodey's voice is soft as he nuzzles the back of Tony's neck. "You know exactly what I mean."

And Tony is no longer tense, he just kind of collapses back into Rhodey. "I know." His voice is still tight though.

"Will us being back at the tower help?" And God Tony wishes he would just stop with the questions because he loves Rhodey, he really does, he's his best friend, but he feels kind of delicate right now and this isn't helping.

"I don't know.." And it's an honest admission at least, because Tony doesn't know anymore. He hopes so. Rhodey squeezes him tighter.

"Okay, I'm not going to push you. I am going to keep an eye though, okay?"

And really Rhodey's worrying and mother henning of Tony is going to be the death of him some day, but all he can do is nod and grab his best friends hand with his own where it rests over his stomach. At least someone cares he reminds himself.

They fall asleep again, Tony can see the window now he's laying this way and it's still really early. Rhodey had probably wanted to get up for a jog or something equally disgusting.

\--

Saturday morning sees the Avengers piling gear and belongings into the Quinjet, and Tony cannot sit still; it's like he's mainlined caffeine straight into his system. He kind of feels a little sick too, he's not sure what that's about, but he supposes he could be a little nervous about having people living back at the tower full time again. He's been alone for so long, he's not exactly sure how the idea of having everyone back makes him feel. In some ways, his isolation was both his own fault and self imposed; he's a danger to others, he screws up and makes mistakes and it would be better for these people to not be around that. At the same time though, he's warring with a desperate, childish, need to gather them all up and take them home with him.

He tries to lend a hand where needed but Natasha seems increasingly irate and is accusing him of getting in the way; he gives up after Rhodey threatens to strap him in a seat in the Quinjet himself. Tony tsks, these youngsters have no respect for their elders these days.

They're at the Tower by lunchtime and Tony heads straight to his lab while they move boxes; he doesn't have any real work to do, but he's desperate to feel like he's doing something useful.


End file.
